Mirrors Are Wretched, Particularly Metaphorical Ones
by uisceB
Summary: Mithian/Morgana Season 5 episode "Another's Sorrow." This one got way darker than I planned on. Dub/non-con, whipping, bondage, all that jazz. Started out funny, got very very much on the angsty side, so just be warned about that. Mention of past Morgana/Vivian, Morgana/Gwen, Morgana/Morgause. Feel free to toss some reviews at me! Thanks for reading!


I

"You will do everthing I tell you, exactly as I say, or I will have your father's head on a pike" was not one of Morgana's best-constructed pick-up lines, but it's the one she ended up using on the Princess Mithian and once it was out there, there was really no taking it back.

Mithian stared at the sorceress, mouth slightly agape, probably trying to figure out if Morgana was being serious, or just unhealthily hyperbolic. Utlimately though, she seemed to decide Morgana was likely capable of anything so she set her jaw and gave a curt, silent jerk of her head. Her mouth was set in a snarl, however, and her eyes remained snapping and firey beneath dark lashes.

So Mithian wasn't as delicate as that face of hers would suggest. She might even have to be broken a little bit in order to be controlled. Morgana startled herself by feeling strangely intrigued by the thought. Odd. She'd thought that part of her brain had been irreparably damaged years ago.

This wasn't the first time Morgana had seen Mithian, although it was the first they'd ever been properly introduced. Well. "_Properly"_ was maybe a bit optimistic. Mithian was essentially her prisoner at the moment, all bound and chained and starving. But in any case. Before, Morgana had only seen the Princess from afar, accompanying Arthur on a hunt.

Had Morgana been paying attention at that time, she might have taken note of at least the general striking appearance of the Princess. But, the sorceress had been a bit preoccupied using magic to fling that troublesome Guinevere through the air and into a tree, and then transforming her into a doe in the hopes that Arthur might end up shooting her, thus killing his one true love. It was one of Morgana's more poetic revenge schemes and she couldn't help but be a little upset it hadn't panned out. That would have been one for the bards to sing about.

But if not for the plotting and the magic and the high-flying soon-to-be-Queen Guinevere, Morgana might have taken more notice of the young auburn-haired woman at Arthur's side, crossbow in hand, matching the King perfectly pace for pace. Morgana _did_ remember noting that she was dressed in something of a spectacular fluffy white ensemble which, now she thought about it, reminded her of something a visionary young Druid boy she'd met once had invented called a _marshmallow._ Marshmallows were strange fluffy white things made out of the hooves of dead horses, and though they shouldn't have been, they were actually remarkably sweet and delicious. And they really did look exactly the same as what Mithian had been wearing that day. They really did.

But not today. Today, the Princess was in a simpler golden gown which, in spite of it all, still managed to shimmer in the beams of sunlight streaming in through the windows of the Great Hall. Morgana watched her closely as the guards of her newest throw-away ally, King Odin, forced the Princess and her father onto their knees, swords at their captives' backs.

Odin, swaggering and idiotic as ever, strode towards Mithian, taking her face roughly in his hand and drawling that she was even more beautiful than the rumors would suggest. Morgana was torn between wanting to roll her eyes and wanting to murder Odin because, really, _she_ had kind of wanted to say that. Because it was true. And it was a little cliche, but it was true.

So then Mithian had sneered back that Odin was a cold-blooded murderer which, again, was true, but certainly not anything like new information. It was a nice delivery, though. Morgana already felt herself warming up to the girl.

What clinched it though, was the way the Princess glared, defiant and fearless at Morgana, even as Morgana threatened her father, even as Odin's men dug their blades into the back of her neck. She had one of those blazing, unwavering stares that looked like it could set fire to the entire surrounding area.

Morgana kept her own gaze locked in kind on the Princess, feeling a smirk beginning to creep into the corner of her mouth. Then she gestured for the guards to lock the Princess and her father up in the dungeons, and ran her hand fondly over the throne, reflecting that she always felt more at home when there was a throne for her to capture. Then she made a promise to Odin she had no intention of keeping and began to stalk out of the Hall.

Before she reached the doors however, she paused and threw Odin a glance over her shoulder.

"Just to be clear," she said, "Mithian's mine. You touch her again, and I will cause the skin on your face to wrap around your head and smother you." And then, because she realized some civility was required in alliances, she added, "I appreciate the use of your army. They're very…manful. I enjoy their use of…weapon…fighting."

Whether or not this softened the threat it was hard to say; Odin was not a man of many facial expressions and Morgana had already turned to walk out the doors anyway, so it was anyone's guess as to whether or not this alliance would actually hold.

But Morgana had other things on her mind right now. Mithian, for one. _Breaking_ Mithian, for two.

II

Although Morgana had first laid eyes on Mithian three years beforehand, _Mithian_ recalled having glimpsed the sorceress many years before that, during a tournament held at Camelot. It had been some fancy ordeal in celebration of Prince Arthur's having turned 15 and slaughtered his first ever slobbering-winged-monster-animal. Uther had invited nearly everyone in all the realms to celebrate, even some of his adversaries who declined thoughtfully by sending a poisoned cake to the citadel which Arthur, being a forever hungry and horny 15-year-old boy, had gobbled up and promptly nearly died from.

Needless to say, he was not present at the tournament because he was busy trying not to be dead while the Court Physician dumped every cure and every concoction known to mankind down the boy's throat.

At 13 years old, Mithian had outgrown the excitement of tournaments- they went on too long, and the seats were never cushioned, and anyway, she could ride a horse better than most of these mustachio'd morons. Besides, she'd overheard one of her maids once whispering to the cook that it was rumored that one day, she might be chosen to marry Prince Arthur.

Well. If that was to be the case, then Mithian decided she ought to at least have a look around, see if Camelot measured up to her own home in Nemeth. Mostly it was draftier, but there were a few nice rooms with the occasional fearsome tapestry hanging from the walls.

What she found most interesting, however, was when she came round the corner of some stairs and spotted two girls arguing heatedly on the landing above her. Not wanting to be seen listening to them, Mithian crouched low, peeking around the corner to catch a glimpse of them.

They were a few years older than her, and considerably better-dressed. Mithian was still barely holding onto the age of being permitted to continue wearing breeches and a tunic instead of being forced into gowns and frocks that did exactly _nothing_ for one's ability to ride or hunt. She felt suddenly shabby and unimpressive in comparison to the girls above her now.

There was a blonde one who was drawling and bored. "I don't know what you're getting so _upset_ about, Morgana," she was saying. "I'm sure Arthur would've figured it out eventually, it's not like you're all that good at hiding it, the way you _moon_ over her constantly…"

"I do not _moon_ over _Guinevere_, Vivian," the raven-haired girl snapped back, face haughty and sour, eyes translusent and flashing. "And even if I _did_, you had no right to tell _Arthur_ about it, you know how he is, I'll never hear the end of it…"

"Well if he dies from that cake thing, then I'd say you're pretty much off the hook," Vivian pointed out, examining her fingernails. "Really, you should be glad I told someone who might die before he gets the chance to tell anyone. You could try saying 'thank you Vivian'…"

"Fuck you, Vivian," came the quick reply.

Vivian seemed to consider the words for a moment, then took the brunette by the waist and pushed her back against the wall, pressing a kiss to the other girl's mouth.

Mithian's eyes widened in surprise and she felt a a flush take over her entire body, checking around herself wildly, almost in the hopes that someone else had seen it too so she could share this experience with _someone_. _Anyone_, really.

But there was no one. She was the sole witness, and _nothing_ could pry her away from this. She watched as Vivian pulled back, licking her lips with satisfaction as Morgana stared at her in utter shock.

"What the _hell_ did you do that for?" the brunette demanded.

Vivian rolled her eyes. "Oh, _what_, Morgana. You like girls. I'm a girl. The best one you're ever going to find, actually, you could stand to show a little gratitude that I even considered you _worthy_ of kissing."

Morgana scowled. "That was not a _kiss_, that was a _mess_," she said, though Mithian thought she could detect a hint of teasing in the brunette's voice.

Vivian shrugged off the insult. "It was _perfect_," she said, "you're just in denial because I'm not your precious _Gwen_. It's too bad, you were good. You taste really…you taste really good." She looked at Morgana thoughtfully and Mithian almost thought she was going to kiss her again- actually, really sort of hoped she would -but then said instead, "You've got these nasty dark circles under your eyes though, they call it _beauty sleep _for a _reason_, you know. Might help with your handmaiden conquests."

Morgana replied wih a "Fuck off, Vivian" and stalked past her down the stairs.

Mithian had had to flatten herself against the wall so she wouldn't be discovered and watched Morgana disappear down the hallway, skirts fluttering behind her in a precise, clipped sort of grace that could only be found amongst the very angry, or the very pleased.

And now, here, locked in her own dungeons, with her father being detained somewhere else unknown, Mithian was seeing that stride again as Morgana walked toward her, stopping when she reached the bars of the cell that separated them, smirk firmly in place. And just as she had all those years ago, Mithian shrunk from her approach and flattened herself against the wall.

III

Morgana could get used to this. She had commanded one of the burlier of Odin's men to bring a chair down to the dungeons and he'd outdone himself by returning with the biggest chair he could find short of the throne itself which, being made of marble, would have been a difficult thing to carry.

Reclining back in the seat, she motioned to the second-burliest of Odin's men, the one who didn't speak but had a lovely collection of whips at his disposal. Wordlessly, the man made his way into Mithian's cell and looped her bound hands over a hook hanging down from the ceiling. The Princess was just tall enough that she wasn't being suspended in the air, though it looked like an uncomfortable stretch.

She'd been stripped down to her shift and looked like she'd been roughed up a bit- Morgana wouldn't be surprised if it was because the Princess had tried to make an ill-advised escape attempt in the twenty minutes it had been since she'd been thrown down here. And tightly bound as she was, she still gave one hard tug against the hook in the ceiling, eyes piercing and wild, on the alert for any weakness, any chance of escape.

The girl was a figther, and a smart one at that, one who would never miss the opportunity to get in a verbal jab, or even a physical one if she could manage it. She had a proud tilt to her head, despite the circumstances, and the slight air of having been spoiled her entire life. Morgana tried hard to ignore the bit of her brain that was viciously and cacklingly pointing out just how exactly similar Mithian was to herself, back when she had been simply the Ward of Uther Pendragon and not his vengeful illegitimate daughter.

"Princess Mithian," the sorceress addressed her pleasantly with a brief bow of her head. She smiled. "I have a job for you."

"I am a bit busy at the moment," Mithian pointed out, "or maybe you missed the part where I've been locked in a dungeon."

Morgana nodded to Odin's man who obediently drew back the whip and brought it cracking back down diagonally across Mithian's back.

The Princess didn't cry out from pain so much as she did from surprise, her face going white with shock from the sudden assault. Breath trembling, she levelled her gaze back at Morgana, a shadow of fear playing at the corners of her eyes.

"As I was saying, I have a job for you," Morgana repeated lazily, "one I actually think you might enjoy. You'd be reuniting siblings, old friends…more importantly, me with my crown…"

"I would never _help_ you do anything," Mithian spat, "not after what you've done to Arthur…"

Morgana motioned again for Odin's man and the whip whistled cleanly down across the Princess's back, and the dungeon echoed with the sound of her yelp.

Morgana leaned forward. "Isn't it amazing how every time you open your mouth to speak when I don't want you to, you get struck in the back with a whip?" she asked. "There's a lesson to be learned in there somewhere, I'm just sure of it."

Mithian's face was livid, anger once again overtaking fear, but she remained silent so Morgana leaned back comfortably in her chair.

"Anyway," she continued, "it's not what I've done to Arthur, it's what Arthur's done to me. If you even knew the half of it…" but Morgana wasn't going to go there, not right now. Her personal trials were her own business and had a tendency to bring up those _enormously_ unhelpful things called emotions. So she refocused the conversation, slipping her smile back into place.

"You _will_ help me," she said, "because you're not a complete moron. You know I can hurt you. You know I _will_ hurt you. I could spend all day making threats at you, but I think we both know that in the end, you'll be doing things my way because there really is no other option. Do we understand each other?"

Mithian stared at her long and hard, then spit on the ground before Morgana's feet, eyes smouldering. So Morgana sighed and once again motioned for Odin's man.

IV

At Prince Arthur's 15th birthday tournament, Mithian had hesitated only a moment after Morgana had stalked past an irate Vivian before tearing after her to see what would happen next. Morgana struck her as a strange, mythical creature- she kissed _girls_, she did things with _girls_…it was unheard of and Mithian wanted to see more of it. Maybe if she followed Morgana around long enough, it would happen again, maybe it just happened all the time, maybe with one of the visiting Ladies, maybe with the mysterious Guinevere person, maybe…

The point was, if it happened again, Mithian wanted to be there to see it. It was prettier than she would have imagined, if the thought had ever even occurred to her to imagine- more exciting. She was obsessed with it, and not really sure why. Maybe it was the hunter in her- now that she'd had a glimpse of it she needed to track it down, understand it, own it. Morgana was like a unicorn. A very sour, angry unicorn. And she needed to be captured somehow.

As it happened, Morgana stormed straight down to where the tournament was in full tilt. Her movements were agitated and restless and Mithian kept well to the shadows so as not to be seen. Chances were, a sour, angry unicorn could do a hell of a lot of damage.

She watched as the raven-haired girl leaned her elbows on the fence encircling the jousting arena. Her gaze was in the direction of the knights about to face off against one another, but her mind was clearly on other things. In fact, she was practically fuming.

As the knights dug their heels into their horses' hides, Morgana's fuming only seemed to intensify, and as the horses broke into a gallop, her eyes squeezed shut and her grip around the fence tightened.

Mithian gasped. The ground beneath the entire arena shuddered and both knights, as well as several standing spectators, were knocked to the ground. Mithian herself grabbed onto the side of the wall she was pressed against to keep from falling over, eyes glued to Morgana who was just shocked as everyone else, but standing noticeably more upright.

And as the Court Physician announced to the crowd that it was nothing to fear, probably just shifting tectonic plates, which made sense to absolutely _nobody_, Mithian tried her best to convince herself that the earthquake hadn't been caused by Uther's Ward. Because that would just be silly. The Lady Morgana couldn't possibly have magic. She couldn't _possibly_.

Except that she did. Clearly. A little rueful now as the whip descended upon her _again_, Mithian realized she might have saved herself the trouble of trying to convince herself otherwise as she watched Morgana now, seated outside her cell, absently conjuring a flame in her hand, only to close her fist on it, putting it out, and then conjuring it again, and again, like it was some sort of bad habit.

Like nail-biting, only more deadly.

It was almost enthralling, the idea that, in a fit of pure teenage rage at having been called out by Vivian, Morgana had unknowlingly caused an earthquake. And now, this adult Morgana, seated ever so comfortably and casually performing magic, in complete control of everything around her.

Mithian did her best to remain resentful instead of awe-struck.

At this point, the whipping had gone on for a good 15 minutes straight and there didn't seem to be any sign of it letting up any time soon. Morgana had suggested to Odin's man that his strikes might be more effective if he rid Mithian of her clothes entirely.

And so, the Princess was stripped down to nothing, hands bound above her head, while Odin's man brought the whip down on her back over and over with tireless persistence. She bit her lip to keep from screaming, determined to let nothing more than the occasional grunt or hiss pass her lips. Nevertheless, her eyes welled up and she was unable to stop the fall of a tear or two. Five, maybe.

She stared hard at Morgana as the whip struck again and again, and Morgana held her gaze, calmly and without emotion. If nothing else, it gave the Princess something to focus on, a puzzle to solve. After all this, how was Morgana content to simply sit back and _watch_ her? The sorceress seemed neither angry, nor happy, nor even bored. Just present. Present and watching. Though as the seconds ticked by, Mithian started to notice a heavy darkness settle in her eyes.

At last, Morgana lifted a hand, though her gaze remained locked with Mithian's.

"Enough," she said to Odin's man and he disappeared obediently, leaving the two of them alone.

V

The fact of the matter was that Morgana was never really as strong as she pretended to be. She was never as strong, never as good, never as bad. The only thing she ever seemed to be adequate enough in was weakness. And watching Mithian's beating appealed to her absolute weakest side.

Several weak sides, actually.

There was the obvious- Morgana would be the absolute last person in the world to say no to the idea of spending time in the same room with a breathless, clothes-less, chained-up woman, particularly one with a face as angled and pretty as Mithian's. And after far too much time spent in isolation, or with axe-slinging meat-headed little boys, watching Mithian was a surprising jolt of a reminder that there was still blood pumping through her veins after all.

On a more disturbing note, however, was just how exact Mithian's likeness was to her- well, the _her _of 6 years ago. It was like looking in a mirror: That haughty, spoiled, unshakable belief that she was invincible, that despite the fact that she was being beaten bloody and nearly senseless, she still seemed to believe she'd come out on top in the end. It was an air Morgana had always had when she was younger, one she'd always used with Uther, with Arthur, whenever anyone tried to make her feel like she was nothing, and it really didn't stop until the day Morgause died and Morgana realized no one was invincible.

Essentially, watching Mithian being beaten was a bit like watching her younger self being beaten, and for the life of her, Morgana couldn't figure out how she felt about that- a small part of her wanted to protect Mithian. Another, far more insidious part of her wanted to hurt Mithian even more.

Honestly, Morgana would prefer it if her brain would please just stop working altogether because all it ever did was get her confused, or in trouble, and was it really so much to ask that she just be able to watch a beautiful naked woman writhing around and be able to get off on it like a normal person instead of getting turned on, and then feeling guilty, and then disgusted, and then much too hot, and then kind of cold, and then nostalgic, and then wanting to curl up in a corner and stay there until her life finally passed her by…?

All of it was just so very stupidly akin to all those times she'd lusted after Gwen and been taunted by Vivian.

God, she'd been reduced to an angsty teenager again. An angsty teenager with a mild torture fetish.

Needless to say, when Morgana entered Mithian's cell, she was at a complete loss for what exactly she was doing there. Her intentions had started out simply enough: destroy Mithian until she was malleable enough to bribe into leading Arthur to his doom.

Now, the sorceress felt remarkably uneasy, which, still, did nothing to stop her from raking her eyes over Mithian's entire body, feeling the heat radiating from both the girl's beating and her anger.

The Princess's body was strong, well-muscled. Of course. Just as a hunter's would have to be. Morgana wondered briefly what it meant to a hunter to be bound like this, - was it really all that degrading, or was it kind of a relief, kind of immensely satisfying to finally be treated like prey?

For all her defiant glares (and unnecessary spitting in Morgana's direction), the exhaustion of the beating had finally worn on Mithian, and her head drooped against her chest. Her eyes fluttered up at Morgana briefly as the sorceress stood at the entrance of the cell, but then cast downward again to the floor. She wasn't defeated, though- Morgana could see that. She was simply tired and really, she had full right to be.

Careful, as though she was dealing with a very wounded, very dangerous animal, Morgana stood herself directly in front of the Princess, lifting the girl's head up by her chin, searching her eyes.

"Glad to see there's still a spark there," she commented, finding herself surprisingly relieved. If Mithian could survive all this, then maybe Morgana could too.

She held Mithian's face in her hand a moment longer, then reached up, releasing the Princess's wrists from the ceiling. Feeling her tense against her, Morgana almost let her go- go, let her be free, be wild, be spoiled and sweet and very very safe.

That'd be nice, wouldn't it?

Instead, Morgana heard herself warn, "Don't run" and, hands gripping firmly at Mithian's hips, she circled round to the back of her. Pushing gently, she guided the Princess by the waist so she was standing at the bars of the cell, facing out. Morgana took the girl's hands and wrapped them firmly around the bars. Then she stepped back, tracing a finger down the length of Mithian's spine.

"Don't let go," she told her.

VI

The closest Mithian had ever come to falling in love was that brief couple of days when she was engaged to King Arthur a couple years before. It was so brief, in fact, that it hardly registered. Well, it registered a little bit, because in the end, Arthur didn't love her back, he loved a woman called Guinevere, and Mithian always wondered if it was the same Guinevere she'd overheard Vivian and Morgana talking about all those years ago.

Now she thought about it, she probably never really was in _love_ with Arthur. But she really liked him, his charm, his sweetness underneath all that arrogance, and how very sad he was when he talked about his sister. It was the strangest thing, to feel want for someone, and she'd wanted him so badly. She'd spent her whole life being the hunter, and with him, all she wanted was to finally be taken down.

But Arthur didn't _take_ anything, he only _gave_, because he was noble, and because his heart belonged to someone else.

Still, he'd kissed her when they'd gone on a picnic together, sort of politely at first, then with a bit more wanting after a moment. He'd even sort of rolled half-way on top of her, and that felt exactly right, to be a little bit trapped and not in control.

And then his manservant Merlin had gotten fidgety and uncomfortable and kept trying to make conversation about the weather while Mithian was trying to slip her tongue into Arthur's mouth, and there was nothing quite like yammering about the weather that could just completely obliterate any sense of passion. It also somehow must have reminded the King about Guinevere because he became sort of sullen again, and maybe it was really all for the best, but Mithian had really wanted him to continue.

"Keep going," she'd wanted to say, but obviously didn't.

It was too much to almost be owned and then let go of with nothing to show for it.

VII

The ligatures left in Mithian's back must be undoubtedly painful, but they were thin and not terribly deep; most of the blood had dried already. Still. Morgana felt a small pang of sympathy as she looked at them.

Which fucking _hurt_ and she quickly vowed never to feel sympathy ever again.

It was funny- aside from the exhaustion, Mithian looked so perfectly _in tact_ from the front. It wasn't until you got back here that you could see how destroyed she was. Morgana felt the sudden overwhelming desire to make Mithian's entire body look just as scarred, to mark her very permanently as a damaged thing. It would be nice to finally see someone look as ripped up as Morgana felt. Just once.

She traced the longest of the whip marks on Mithian's back, the one that extended from her left shoulder all the way down to her right hip. Mithian shivered against her, breath catching- even the faintest touch against those marks was bound to burn.

Knowing she shouldn't, knowing she should leave Mithian down here alone just to emphasize how ugly this could get if the Princess didn't do as she asked, Morgana stepped in close, resting one hand on Mithian's waist, and skimming the other lightly over the whip marks at the tops of her shoulder blades. Mithian whimpered very softly, almost soft enough that Morgana wasn't sure if it was just her imagination. Even if it was, it was stil enough to make the pit of her stomach twist and she reached around, closing her hands over Mithian's on the cell bars, and pressing her body flush against the Princess's back.

Mithian stiffened, the muscles in her shoulders going tense and Morgana dropped her head against the crook of the girl's neck, breath heavy. Mithian squirmed in her grasp as she slid her hands down from the cell bars, one snaking down across Mithian's lower belly, the other sliding up to clutch at her breast.

"Don't…" Mithian pleaded, voice breaking.

Morgana froze. This was wrong. This was all wrong. This was every line she should never ever cross. And what was she even thinking, that she would ever…surprised at her own actions, she stepped back, releasing Mithian from her hold. Before she could take her hands from her completely however, she felt Mithian close her fingers over wrist, pulling it back down against her skin.

"No, don't…don't stop," she amended, voice hoarse. "Please just…keep going."

Morgana considered yet again that this was all in her imagination, that really Mithian was begging her to leave her alone, that Morgana was only hearing what she wanted to hear. But Mithian pulled hard on both of her arms, wrapping them around herself and beginning to guide them down to where she was hot and startlingly wet.

This was much too much to handle. Morgana latched her mouth onto the knobs at Mithian's spine, first pulling her roughly against herself, then pressing her hard against the bars, getting a knee in between Mithian's legs. Mithian choked out a moan, her head falling back against the crook of Morgana's shoulder, soft and boneless in Morgana's arms.

Morgana turned her head into the exposed side of Mithian's neck, inhaling deeply as she buried her face in the Princess's hair- and God be damned if it didn't smell exactly the same as the oils Gwen had once put in Morgana's hair. Feeling almost light-headed from the scent, she dug her fingers into the inside of Mithian's thigh and bit down much too hard against the side of her throat, illiciting a pained whimper from the Princess.

Morgana's fingers crept up between the Mithian's thighs, spreading her, then finally slipping up inside. It wasn't without some resistance- it had never really occured to her that Mithian might not have done this before, though her strangled cry and the way she squirmed sort of suggested she may not have. Morgana slowed her ministrations, brushing her lips against Mithian's neck, softer this time.

"You're alright, love," Morgana murmured against her skin, almost without thinking as Mithian's breaths grew deeper again as she eased into the rhythm of Morgana's fingers.

"Love" was not the appropriate word to have used there, Morgana knew that. _Gwen_ had been love. _Morgause_ had been more than love. Vivian…well, Vivian had been fun in an irritating sort of way.

But this right here, this was a very simple need that Morgana hadn't the slightest idea how to quanitfy. All she knew was that it was necessary, that it was even worth temporarily putting off her endeavors against Arthur, just for one more touch, one more taste.

She actually felt herself beginning to quake very slightly as Mithian clenched down around her fingers, coming in small cries that nevertheless echoed through the entire dungeon.

It was a long time before either of them moved. They both just sort of stayed there, slumped against each other and the bars of the cell, breathing heavily, not a word passed between them.

Then Morgana pulled away and Mithian turned slowly to face her and Morgana said, "You will do everything I tell you, exactly as I say, or I will have your father's head on a pike."

VIII

Mithian didn't sleep for weeks, not even after Morgana's effort against Arthur had ultimately failed and Mithian had been safely returned to her father. Part of it was because Mithian feared, somewhat irrationally, that Morgana would someday return to take her vengeance on her.

Part of it was because she'd do anything to be able to see her again.

It was just like at Prince Arthur's 15th birthday tournament, following Morgana around, fascinated by every aspect of her. She would never be able to get enough of whatever it was that Morgana was, her power, her weakness, all of it. It was addictive. No matter whether Morgana was evil or not, she was completely addictive.

Years later, Mithian would fall in love with a boy who hunted even better than she did, and they lived surprisingly happily ever after. Still, every night after the boy fell asleep, it was Morgana whose face was etched in her mind and sleep never really came easily to her again.


End file.
